


curtain of lies

by katheneverwrites (mandolinearts)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Communism, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Immigration & Emigration, Period-Typical Homophobia, Victuuri - mentioned, you will probably want to take emil away from me after this and you're valid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandolinearts/pseuds/katheneverwrites
Summary: Well then, Emil Nekola said to the mirror one dreary morning, if they were going to lie to him, he was going to lie tothem..A story about a skater, a regime full of lies, a daring escape, and found family.
Relationships: Emil Nekola & Other(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 35





	curtain of lies

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Aze for being such an amazing and kind beta, and all my uwu’s to Allison and Viluš for their never-ending support. I wouldn’t even have thought of writing this without the Mad Hatters discord, so shout out everyone there. You guys are the best, I love you so much.
> 
> TW for communism and mentions of homophobia. English is not my native language - please excuse any mistakes. I’m Czech, but am I not able or even aiming to describe everything in complete and accurate detail. Please do not take this fic as a history lesson. I will link some actual articles and books in the end notes.  
> If there’s anything you feel I should tag but haven’t, let me know.

From the ruins of a holy dome  
in a box of simple tokens  
I brought an angel to my home  
his wings were badly broken

I sensed a feeling so uncalm  
as he glanced me with devotion  
so I pressed into his gentle palm  
a vial with exotic lotion

///

1976

The air in West Germany isn’t any different from the air in Czechoslovakia – and yet Emil breathes heavily behind the steering wheel of an old, dull blue Trabant.

He has to pull over at the nearest gas station. Gets out of the car, stumbles and ends up sitting in the ditch. His hands are shaking. Everything is too much.

He’s free.

The feeling rushes through him, those long minutes at the border that felt like an eternity, the gaze of the Czechoslovak patrol skimming over every nook and cranny, looking for any sign that Emil is trying to emigrate instead of just visiting the West. He felt sick when they interrogated him, trying to seem calm and collected and normal. The afternoon sun was warm, light reflecting from the windows of the customs building and making the scene seem calm and serene when it was anything but. They asked questions, both invasive and seemingly harmless ones, all while searching his car inside and out. 

They did not find anything. He hid his documents and valuables in the isolation under the engine. His skates are glued into the cushioning of the backseats – he will probably have to vandalize his own car to get them back out – but he’s made it. 

His cover story worked, too. Those idiots believed him to be a Zamboni driver who is just going to Brussels to look at new ways to flatten the ice. Never mind that that Zamboni workshop was months ago. They ate it. Just like the communist officials ate all of his previous lies. He has become quite a good liar, by the virtue of his own situation. They take an odd look at him, tell him that his name sounds familiar, and let him be.

After a little over half an hour, he manages to get up, sit back down in his car, and start driving. His Trabant, the car that one can repair with a hammer if necessary, speeds down the German highways. Emil dares to hope that whatever lies ahead will be better than what he’s leaving behind.

///

1966

He placed third at the 1966 ISU World Championships in Switzerland. He was still a newcomer then, too young to participate at the Olympics in Innsbruck two years prior, but with his sights set on Grenoble 1968. His country, though its residents cared more about hockey than figure skating, was ecstatic for him. The communist party upheld him as a symbol of socialism triumphing over western imperialism. For like two weeks.

Emil didn’t really get it. He was nineteen - and he just wanted to skate. He was still full of sensations from one of the few visits to the West that he was allowed as a professional athlete. Living in his little bubble of skating bliss was nice - aware of the reality but thinking, _hoping_ it didn’t include him. Unfortunately, present Emil remarks as he sips gas station coffee at a pit stop somewhere halfway through Germany, that bubble was popped.

He was practicing figures, doing big loops across the deserted ice on a Wednesday morning before anyone else came in when his coach poked his head out of the office and waved at him to come. Emil was a respectful student, so he put on his skate guards and hopped up the wooden stairs to the “room of anguish”, as he and his friends liked to call it. It was where everyone got a stern talking to if they weren’t taking care of themselves or their gear properly.

Nothing could have possibly prepared him for the conversation he was about to have.

He walked inside the small office, ducking under the door frame just a bit. There was his coach, Martin, sitting behind his desk. In the armchair that was usually full of paperwork sat another man – in a gray coat with polished gray boots and with a gray folder in his lap.

A higher official from the Party, Emil realized. This was uncomfortable.

He tried his best to put on the cheerful smile he used to charm the audience with. The man begrudgingly grinned too, but made no move to stand.

”Emil, this is comrade Tomek. He’s here to discuss a certain topic with you.” Martin’s voice sounded strained. He was in the Party, of course he was, but he wasn’t keen on politics influencing the sport. He took a deep breath and then turned to comrade Tomek. “Comrade, this is Emil Nekola, the skater you wanted to speak with. I’ll leave you two to it, ” And with that, he sneaked past Emil, without making eye contact, and shut the door behind him.

Comrade Tomek’s gray eyes scanned Emil from head to toe, before he opened his mouth and spoke in a gruffly voice: “Pleased to meet you, comrade Nekola. Please sit, we have important matters to discuss.”

Emil mumbled a quick “Pleased to meet you too,” and after a second of contemplation, sat on Martin's desk.

The papers in the comrade’s folder shuffled as he appeared to sort through them. He stopped after a few moments as if lost in thought. “I have to congratulate you on your bronze medal from the world championships. It was an admirable effort.”

“Thank you,” peeped Emil.

“You worked really hard to make your socialist country proud, right? All the comrades that work in the factories are no doubt in awe of your performance.” That gray gaze looked at him for a fleeting moment and then the man started sorting through the papers again.

Emil felt as if he was being examined or standing trial. It was terrifying. “I practiced a lot, yes. I will practice even more next time,” he managed to get out. Where was this conversation going, do prdele?

“Do you think practice will be enough to beat the Americans and the rest of the Western competition?”

“...What?”

“Do you think that the imperialist west is playing this game of sport fairly?”

“Wh – what do you mean?” Emil wasn’t stupid. But was comrade Tomek being serious? What was even happening? His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the table he was sitting on.

Comrade Tomek pressed on, seemingly without regard for Emil’s distress. “Look, Comrade Nekola, I’ll be honest with you. According to our information, the vast majority of your imperialist competitors take medications that enhance their performance. We have attempted to bring this to light with the International Skating Union, but to no avail, since they obviously favor the west.”

There it was. Emil knew what was coming – He had heard of such incidents before from his friends in different disciplines. Steeling himself for the final blow, he decided to take the plunge: “And what do you want me to do about this?”  
“That’s an easy question. We suggest taking the medicine developed by the doctors in the USSR.”

“You want me to take doping.”

“It will allow you to be on the same playing field as your opponents. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Emil hesitated – but only for a second. Comrade Tomek looked at him inquisitively – perhaps expecting joy? - But Emil was already decided: “No.”

“No? Don’t you want to be an equal? Don’t you want to make your country proud?”

“I want to make Czechoslovakia proud, but not through cheating.”

“It isn’t cheating if everyone else is doing it –“ He sighed, sounding as if he was tired of explaining a game of cards to a three-year-old child suckling their thumb. Emil wasn’t a child anymore, though. He had a mind of his own, and he was also really, really stubborn. (Present Emil chuckles at the bittersweet memory as he drives past Koblenz – Stubbornness was what got him into this whole mess, but it was also the thing that kept him from succumbing to despair.)

“I won’t take doping. That’s all.”

Comrade Tomek sighed. “Well then, I cannot force you to do anything, can I?” He stood, brushing off a non-existent speck of dirt from his coat. “Best of luck in your effort to win against tilted scales, Comrade,” He said, and with that he left, shutting the door on his way out.

Emil stood in the empty office, stunned. All that his mind could focus on was _Was it supposed to be this easy?_

.

Martin stopped coaching him the next day.

He came up to Emil after practice and resigned as his coach on the spot. Emil wanted to be surprised, but something in Martin’s eyes stopped him. And as he watched his ex-coach walk back to his office, it hit him.

There were always going to be repercussions for not complying with the suggestions of the Party. A word out of line when a snitch was within earshot meant your kid simply wouldn’t get to go to college, no matter how smart they were. If you got caught listening to a western radio station, you could say goodbye to your job. 

They kept notes of every single one of your step-outs. And what Emil did was way worse than a step out. His bravery and self-confidence in declaring he won’t take doping was like falling on a jump, wiping out on the ice and crashing into the boards – inelegant, reckless and most importantly, costly.

He somberly packed up his skates and walked out of the rink into the bright summer sun. Without a top-class coach, the Olympics in Grenoble were getting more and more distant.

///

1976

When he reaches the border with Belgium, Emil’s hands are shaking again. He’s slept too little and drank too much coffee. So many thoughts are racing through his head that he barely manages to park his car correctly and follow the border patrol into the office.

He speaks some German, just the bare bones one needs for greetings. The officer at the border is empathetic to his struggle and doesn’t get irritated as he fumbles his way through the sentence “Ich möchte um Politische Asyl bitten.” _I want to ask for political asylum._

Emil knows the grammar must be atrocious, but the officer’s eyes widen in understanding. He pulls out another sheet of paper. “Hier ist die Bitte.”

Emil assumes it must be an application. He takes a pen from the table and hastily fills out all of the required information (which is all written also in Russian apart from English, Dutch, and German). After handing the sheet back over to the officer, he pulls out the rest of his documentation, which he managed to get out of his car insulation last night.

The officer reads through everything carefully and even digs out a dictionary to translate some of Emil’s documents. It’s a tense silence, waiting for such a verdict. But Emil is quite used to such situations.

Nevertheless, it’s quite a relief when the officer finally looks up, arranges all the papers neatly into a stack, adds Emil’s passport on top of it and pushes the whole bundle to the other side of the table. „Welkome” He says, and smiles.

It feels as if a huge weight has been lifted from Emil’s shoulders. He has a chance here. “Danke,” he whispers, but it comes out more like a sob.

.

The first few weeks in Belgium are a storm of new sensations.

The country’s social services take him into their care, but Emil knows he wants to find work as soon as possible. He stays in the assigned housing somewhere on the outskirts of Antwerp, attends classes to learn Dutch and tries his best to understand all the job offers in newspapers.

Skating is quite popular in Belgium, especially as the days get colder and Christmas decorations start appearing. Most of the rinks are for speed skaters anyway, Emil tells himself as he walks past one on his way to yet another Dutch class. His skates are now stored in a cardboard box under his bed because he feels he isn’t worthy of skating right now. Not yet.

He opens his windows on some nights and just stares out into the city. He may be unsure, but he is free here. He can talk with anyone about politics (in his broken mix of English, German and Dutch) without worrying they will tell on him to a Public Security agent the moment he turns his back. He doesn’t have to lie. He doesn’t have to look a western interviewer in the eye and say that he loves representing the Eastern Block.

Lying is what he hated the most. A Regime that not only lies to its people, but also forces them to lie in order to survive is the worst of all, Emil thinks as he breathes in the night air.

///

1968

He didn't qualify for any international competition ever since that fateful visit. If it was because Martin resigning caused him to get worse, or because the scores at nationals were rigged, Emil didn´t know. He had to sit out the Olympics in February, and now it was August and he still wasn't feeling much better.

What he did know, and was sure of, was that the summer of 1968 could change all of it.

Something was happening. Ever since the start of the year, it felt as if the Czechoslovak communist government was straying a bit from the plans of the USSR. It started when Dubček became the First Secretary of the Party. He started making reforms – loosening the tyrannical reins and allowing some freedom. He kept talking about reforming the regime into something he called “Socialism with a human face” where the country would attempt to implement a more democratic version of whatever they had now.

They started calling it Prague Spring somewhere around April. Then, in June, the censorship of press was lifted. Emil walked home one evening and picked up a newspaper at a cigarette shop. He couldn’t stop grinning as he read an article about the ways that propaganda had shaped the view of history and how the time has come to look at it critically and with open eyes. He slept well that night.

In July, he had the opportunity to read and sign _The Two thousand words manifesto_ , which detailed all the ways that communism and socialism had hurt Czechoslovakia and its people, and how the public were not to be deterred by any kind of Soviet backlash. The author’s name, Ludvík Vaculík, was displayed proudly and the words were scathing, calling for more change and most importantly, more freedom.

It all felt surreal. Finally, Emil felt freedom somewhere else than on the ice. He even talked to Martin, who said that he would be willing to coach Emil once again.

.

There were tanks.

The first time Emil saw them, he was passing in front of a news stand. The one where he picked up that article about the criticism of the regime a few days ago. Maybe they would still have copies of that newspaper, he thought - That was when he heard an enormous rumble from the main street.

Both he and the shopkeeper turned violently and stood frozen, papers fluttering to the ground, as an enormous green monster with caterpillar tracks rolled through the intersection at Mírák. The two of them shared a slow, terrified look, gazing at the image of terror in the peaceful streets of Prague. They soon heard another tank rumble its way along. This one had the sickle and hammer painted on the front - There was no question as to who was arriving.

Emil’s hands shook as he helped pick up the newspapers. He wanted to ask anyone what was going on, but they all seemed just as confused and terrified as him. He ran to the main street, elbowed his way through the forming crowd and stopped abruptly at the sight of an entire line of tanks with soviet insignia rolling their way into the Old Town.

That was August 21st, 1968 - The day when the army of the Warsaw Pact invaded Czechoslovakia, under the pretense that the great Soviets wanted to protect their comrades from imperialism.

Tanks on the Wenceslas Square, tanks driving through small villages around the country, tanks passing in front of the flat where Emil lived. Soldiers with guns and batons marching around the supermarket. It was terrifying.

He supposed that to hope for a bit of freedom and democracy was simply too wistful. There were protests against the occupation, of course. The police cracked down on them immediately. It felt like chaos, except it was a coldly calculated move to break the morale of the public and make sure nothing like it repeated ever again. People were being sent to work camps more than ever before. Any kind of criticism of the "friendly rescue" became an act of treason. It was contra-revolutionary to say the truth. That flash of a better, more just world was gone in an instant. Prague Spring wasn’t drowned in blood, no. It was silenced and suffocated by the crushing, emotionless force of Communist machinery.

Emil walked into the rink every morning and wondered which one of his rink mates would go missing first. Hands sweaty, he would tie his skates and go out on the ice with a sense of overwhelming dread. After training, he wandered through the streets, eyeing the tanks on street corners and the soldiers pacing along the edge of the Vltava river. How much time did he have? How soon would they come and what punishment did they have for him?

In the end, it occurred in such a cold and impersonal manner, that he barely even registered what had happened until it was completely over. He was stopped by a man from the Public Security on one cold November day and told that he was no longer allowed to skate competitively and was banned from any future coaching. 

Emil went home, skates in hand, posture ramrod straight. Only after closing the door and dropping his bags to the floor did he allow himself to break down and cry his heart out. The room was spinning, the feeling of jumping and rotating he used to love suddenly becoming nauseous and alien. All of his potential, all of his love and passion, killed by a totalitarian regime because of a signature under a manifesto that called for respect of basic human rights.

What kind of world was it, if lies had more worth than people? Was it even worth living in?

///

1977

It’s almost March before Emil finally decides to go on the ice. He’s been able to catch a few short term jobs, but given his very specific area of expertise and his limited knowledge of the language, no one ever offered to employ him for a longer period of time. The social worker that has been working with him is clueless. (“How is this even possible? You’re damn smart; you speak almost five languages, why do they never offer you anything more than a secretary position?” She always says. Emil tactfully doesn’t mention that might have something to do with the fact that he’s an immigrant on government aid.) Finally, one day, the urge to glide across the ice becomes too much. He sees the notice on the ice rink’s door announcing that it’s currently open to the public, and in the next moment, he’s turning on his heel and running back to his flat to dig out his skates instead of walking to another futile interview.

He catches a glimpse of his face in the reflection on the glass rink door. His hair is a wild mop on his head from running, and his mustache and beard make him look older. He doesn’t care. At this point, he just wants to be back on the ice.

As he enters the rink and pays a small entry fee, he sees the Zamboni retreating from the ice, and winces. Is it unreasonable to have so much contempt for a machine that allowed him to escape in the first place? Probably. Does he feel relief wash over him anyway when it finally disappears? Absolutely.

Lacing his skates feels foreign. When was the last time he got to do that – eight months ago? It’s surreal. He wobbles around on them and then – finally steps on the ice.

He almost falls on his butt after the first few steps. He wants to cry, to scream, to launch himself into a triple salchow. The ice under his skates is smooth and he glides in long strides around the rink, still unsure but completely ecstatic. It feels a bit like flying and Emil realizes that no matter what, it will always feel that way, the release and freedom one cannot always have in reality forever present on the ice. This was what the communists tried to take away from him, with their advice and their requirements and their medications. They failed, and that makes him stupidly, spitefully happy. 

There are some other people on the ice, but they’re nowhere on his level, Emil remarks with a tiny streak of self-satisfaction. Mostly friends chatting or families with kids wobbling around the barrier. He makes a few more laps around the rink, content to just stay like this forever. There are some pop songs blaring over the speakers, and Emil tries three turns and Choctaws and Mohawks and rockers and discovers he didn’t actually forget anything. Even his compulsory elements don’t look all that bad. His skates obviously need sharpening, but by the end of the session, he feels confident launching himself into a single axel. It’s a bit shaky on the landing, but it’s not like he will ever need to jump doubles or triples again, because he’s not competing.

The thought sobers him, along with a voice coming over the speakers. He recognizes that it says “Please leave the ice, everyone,” in crisp Dutch, then probably a similar message in French. He obeys and spots a pair of men behind the boards, near where he’s left his shoes. One of them, the younger one, is holding a microphone in his hand. Must be the owner of the rink or something, Emil deducts. The man has short silver hair and he and the other man (who’s shorter and a bit balder) seem to be engrossed in conversation.

Emil means to go around them without notice but stops frozen in his tracks when he realizes he can understand every word of the conversation. The men are talking in _Russian._

His mind immediately provides him with a thousand horror scenarios about the Public Security seeing through his lies and coming here to drag him back to Czechoslovakia or just get rid of him altogether. He manages to tangle himself out of the worst panic and sits down on the bench, still involuntarily listening on in the conversation.

“- you can’t just run all the lessons yourself, Vitya,” says the older man. Vitya (which Emil presumes is a diminutive of the younger man’s name) sighs.

“And you also cannot overwork yourself. You should be retired, yelling at everyone from the boards, instead of trying to teach a fifteen-year-old a lutz and breaking your leg in the process. You’re seventy, Yakov. I can handle it.” Vitya’s voice sounds exasperated. “Besides, I can hire someone to help me –“ He’s interrupted by a gruff from the man Emil assumes is Yakov- “Oh come on. Take that fellow that was here today – his skates were dull but his technique was pristine.” (With that, Emil becomes aware that they must be talking about him.)

“Go ask him, then. He’s sitting over there,” says Yakov, unperturbed by Vitya’s enthusiasm.

Vitya seems to take this as a challenge. He drops the microphone into Yakov’s hands and walks over to where Emil is sitting, putting on a smile.

Before he can be subjected to any kind of explanation, Emil decides to take matters into his own hands. He stands and smiles at Vitya too, then greets in his decent Russian: “Привет.” _Hello._

That makes the silver-haired man stop in his tracks and stare at Emil. “Вы говори́те по-ру́сски? _You speak Russian?_ , he says in disbelief. Then he relaxes again, blows his fringe out of his eyes and continues, in Russian, “I apologize for my rudeness. Nice to meet you. I suppose you heard me and Yakov talking?”

Emil nods sheepishly. “It was strange to hear Russian after so long, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”

“It’s all good. That means I don’t have to explain it again. Would you be interested in becoming a coach for young skaters at this rink?”

Emil almost starts crying on the spot. He fights the urge to go and hug this wonderful silver-haired man whom he knows nothing about. He manages to compose himself, though. “Of course, it would be a pleasure. There may be a few hang-ups, since I don’t have citizenship yet-“

He’s interrupted by Vitya turning around and yelling “HEY YAKOV, _GUESS WHAT!_ “ across the entire rink, giving everyone nearby a heart attack. Yakov grumbles something in response, and it seems that Vitya takes it as enthusiastic support. He faces Emil again and extends a hand. “Viktor Nikiforov, at your service. Call me Viktor.”

Emil has a moment of pure confusion before he hurriedly accepts the handshake and introduces himself too. Then he decides to satisfy his curiosity – there can’t be that many men with silver hair named Viktor Nikiforov in figure skating, can there? “Are you… by any chance…”

Viktor smiles at him and nods. “The Viktor Nikiforov, who was a rising star in Soviet figure skating, up until he wasn’t? I am. And you, I presume, are Emil Nekola, bronze medalist from 1966 Worlds, who suddenly disappeared from international competition the year afterward?” He pronounces Emil’s name with the right accent, without glossing over syllables like the westerners do. It feels nice. 

“Yeah, that’s me. I managed to emigrate last year.”

“Well, then. The world is a small place.” Viktor’s face lights up. “Are you truly interested in that job offer?”

“Yes, I am. It would be a dream come true,” Emil says, and after Viktor motions at him to follow him, presumably into his office, adds a remark under his breath, in Czech – “They never allowed me to do it.” 

Viktor doesn’t bother asking what he meant, but he seems to understand the sentiment (after all, Czech and Russian aren’t that different). He walks beside Emil, silent and contemplating. “The crushed dreams are the saddest part of it,” he remarks, just before he stops in front of a door that bears his name. “I hope you can find your happiness again soon,” he says, with a smile. “I found mine when I thought I had lost everything.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Emil doesn’t ask. They enter the office, and the conversation moves to a completely different topic.

.

More than two hours later, Emil walks out of the rink with a new job, a new friend and an enormous smile on his face.

Viktor had briefly questioned him on the matters of him immigration and citizenship, and then spend the rest of the time soothing all of Emil’s worries and insecurities about his new life with wonderful quips like “You don’t speak good Dutch? Don’t worry, neither do half the Frenchmen. You’re at least willing to learn, and that will be appreciated,” and “When Yakov realizes that you speak such excellent Russian (Emil wanted to disagree, but Viktor waved his hand in ignorance), he will come to you with all of his complaints about me, so prepare for that.”

Overall it all feels a bit like a dream. Except his skates are heavy in his hands and the next thing he knows he’s calling up the social worker to tell her that he finally has a job. She’s overjoyed, but advises him to make sure the pay is good enough for him to live off of. He takes note of it but feels like he could just live out the rest of his days sleeping in a car if he gets to be an actual coach.

In Czechoslovakia, the concept of fairy godmother that brings Cinderella her shoes and carriage doesn’t exist. Communists had made sure of that. Emil had watched the Disney movie last week on the television in an attempt to practice his Dutch - not much came of it, except that now he thinks that if the fairy godmother was just a tad bit taller and had shorter hair, she could very well be Viktor Nikiforov. Emil doesn’t ever intend to let Viktor know this, but it brings a smile to his face.

///

Then we vigil kept upon the sky  
watching birds fly high above us  
discussing matters God we also pride  
and common games of playing soldiers

It was strange - I could not see his face  
he always tried to keep it covered  
I guess he envied all the birds, their grace  
as they flew their distance over

///

1974

No one was willing to hire him.

They used to be, at the start. They would hire him as an interpreter, or a translator, and promise him a stable place. But then his “papers” would come in, and they had to very kindly tell him that, unfortunately, a person with his kind of “political history” was not allowed to work in such a high position.

He tried and failed and tried again, going for a lower and lower standard and then being kicked out each time. For a country that had “every person has the right to work” written in bold letters in the policy of its ruling Party, Czechoslovakia sure was helping him get a job.

From time to time he cursed signing that godforsaken manifesto and lamented at his impulsiveness in declining doping, but then again, could he ever face himself in the mirror if he refused to take a stand against lies and deception? He slowly came to realize that all of that doubt and wishes for safety was just his past self talking. The younger, more gullible Emil, whose parents were both proud members of the Party and who grew up in relative luxury, unaware of the horrors and murders that were happening around him. 

He didn’t know when he started to understand that something was fundamentally wrong. Maybe it was the sudden disappearance of an up and coming soviet skater named Viktor Nikiforov when Emil was eleven. He didn’t get the nuances of it, but he knew that he found Viktor pretty, and that that pretty boy was now suddenly gone.

Maybe it was when he was fourteen, and his friends introduced him to underground radio. Or when he kept wondering, why are there always just men and women kissing at those bright colored propaganda posters? (He brought this up to his teacher once – why don’t two men ever kiss or hold hands? She looked at him with fear in her eyes and then told him that it was _forbidden_ and that he should never mention such a _thing_ ever again, lest he be signing a jobless and persecuted future for himself and his entire family.)

Slowly, over the course of his teen years, he realized the ways that socialism and communism and propaganda and elections where you couldn’t choose and state-run economy and five-year plans and the quota for increasing production and the constant demand for more more more simply couldn’t work. It was a regime built on lies, and maybe Emil never admitted it to himself before, but he finally admitted it then, after yet another fruitless job search.

Well then, he said to the mirror one dreary morning, if they were going to lie to him, he was going to lie to them.

Maybe it was precisely the technically unlawful fact of his unemployment that allowed him the opportunity to start planning his leave. Because he had no job, the accountants at his previous place had no idea where to send the documentation of his problems with the regime. These papers were not evidenced with the police, but rather with the employers – and that was a loophole Emil wanted to take full advantage of. He just needed to find the right place.

///

1977

In the following months, Emil lives his best life. He manages to get himself a small flat and even buy some more Disney movies to play on his tiny TV. He tells his neighbors he’s using them to study Dutch, but honestly, he just finds them _so pretty._  
During this time, he notices a few peculiar things at the rink.

Firstly, Viktor, despite how active and creative he is while coaching, never does jumps. He leaves all the jump training to Emil (Who tries his best). Emil has seen him to a single, very slow toe loop exactly once and never again. He has tried to bring the topic up once, but Viktor turned his head away and said, in a serious voice, that the price of freedom is worth paying, no matter how high. Emil deducted that asking him about it again would be rude, but nevertheless he just wants to hug Viktor sometimes.

The second thing is a bit more confusing. There’s another adult skater at the rink, who is, while not world-class, actually quite decent. He’s Asian (Probably – Emil has seen like ten Asian people in his life, so he doesn’t have a big reference pool) and moves very gracefully, gliding among the students in Emil’s class like the embodiment of elegance.

More importantly, Viktor seems absolutely enthralled by him.

And so, because Emil is a good friend, he slides up to Viktor during one of his staring sessions and nudges his shoulder with a smile. “Who is this mysterious man that you keep looking at? Another future coach?”

To his surprise, Viktor shakes his head. “No, no, sadly not. He’s my …flatmate, Yuuri Katsuki. I got him into skating years ago, and even though he would make a tremendous coach, he insists that he’s not good enough.”

With that, it’s like a new secret doorway is opened. A possible new friend! Emil needs more friends. He pushes off the boards and makes a figure eight that brings him face to face with the Asian skater. “Hello, are you Yuuri Katsuki?” He asks in Dutch, deciding to just be straightforward.

The man turns his head, and Emil realizes that if he was just a tiny bit more dramatic, he’d swoon (Soft dark hair falling into deep brown eyes, round cheeks, full lips, who allowed this). Luckily he isn’t, and manages to keep standing and offer a hand for greeting while Mr. Katsuki regards him with a questioning stare.

In the end, he nods. “Yes, I am,” he says, pauses, and then continues, accepting the handshake. “You must be Emil Nekola, Viktor’s colleague. He talked about you a lot when you first got hired.”

Emil grins. “Oh no, has he been gossiping about me?”

Mr.Katsuki side-eyes him, then winks. “Maybe.”

“What rumors has he spread?”

“That you’re very extroverted, very forward, and in need of new friends.”

Emil opens his mouth in faux outrage and then smiles again. “Would you accept my offer of friendship?”

“Do I get something in return?”

“I will… I’ve seen you struggle with the double salchow. I can teach you. You can surprise your flatmate.”

Mr. Katsuki lifts an eyebrow at word ‘flatmate’ and shoots a look towards Viktor, who seems to be in deep conversation with one of the students. Mr. Katsuki turns back and smiles (The sun should just go pack up and leave, Emil muses). “Okay then. Call me Yuuri. Do your worst.”

“Gladly.”

As they take center ice to get out of the way of everyone else, Emil notices Viktor watching Yuuri fondly. _Flatmates my ass_ , he thinks.

.

After two weeks, Yuuri lands a double salchow flawlessly. Emil is incredibly proud. Viktor, who has been watching their endeavors while teaching a class of seven-year-olds, cheers loudly and pats Yuuri on the shoulder. It’s a good day.

What makes it even better is when Emil is whining about having to make pasta for dinner yet again because he forgot to buy groceries; Yuuri suddenly turns to him and says “Do you want to come by to ours for dinner? I always overestimate the ingredients and end up making too much food. It could be a thank-you for teaching me that double salchow.”

Emil can’t believe his luck. “I thought the reward for that was your friendship?”

“My friendship comes with food benefits.”

“Well, who am I to decline such a generous offer?” And with that, it’s settled.

Yuuri and Viktor’s flat isn’t far from the rink, and Emil spends the entire way there wondering what kind of food will Yuuri make. He’s hungry, okay? After he rings the bell and Viktor opens the door, he decides that whatever the food is doesn’t matter, because the smell is absolutely divine.

And it also reminds him of something, he can’t figure out what.

Yuuri apologizes as he puts the smoking bowls on the table. “I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but some ingredients just don’t exist here in Belgium. So this is like the Belgian version of katsudon, please forgive me.”

Viktor just looks at him with hearts in his eyes. Emil feels like he is intruding on a private moment, so he just mumbles a “Bon Appetit,” and puts a spoonful of the hot meaty goodness into his mouth.

He quickly realizes what the smell reminded him of. “This is like-“ He stumbles, searching for the Dutch or Russian word for řízek. He ends up using the German one. “This is a bit like Wienerschnitzel! It’s different, but so delicious..”

His exclamation is met with deafening silence.

Slowly, Viktor and Yuuri turn away from each other, possibly only now realizing the presence of him in the room again. Viktor snorts, and then starts laughing, falling back into his chair. Emil is lost in his reaction, and only after a few moments notices Yuuri, who seems to be still holding his bowl.

“Katsudon doesn’t taste like Wienerschnitzel.“ He says, terror in his voice. “Katsudon is much better than Wienerschnitzel.”

“I wasn’t comparing them – Katsudon is really good!” Emil shoves another bite of the food down his throat to demonstrate, slightly afraid of Yuuri’s wrath. “I just really love Wienerschnitzel too, and it reminded me of it…” He says defensively.

Viktor keeps laughing, and then pats Emil on the shoulder, speaking in Russian: “Yuuri has a bit of a personal vendetta against Wienerschnitzels. I don’t think I have ever seen him enjoy one. I suspect he might think it a bit sacrilegious to compare Katsudon to it.” Then, witnessing Yuuri’s suspicious stare, adds in Dutch: “He isn’t mad at you, don’t worry. Yuuri, you’re not mad at Emil, are you darling?” He stands and hugs Yuuri like an octopus.

Yuuri freezes, eyeing Emil for a second, then relaxes when he sees him smiling. “No, I’m not.” Viktor kisses Yuuri on the cheek. 

Emil waits a solid ten seconds to remind them he exists. “I guess I will just have to make a proper Wienerschnitzel and bring it for you to taste to convince you they are similar?”

Yuuri grins at the challenge. “Good luck with that. May the best one win.”

.

In the end, Yuuri wins. Viktor, who gets appointed as the impartial judge, refuses to decide between the two, up until Yuuri serves the katsudon with a kiss. After that, the decision can’t really be considered impartial, but Emil doesn’t mind. He feels he’s won when Yuuri begrudgingly asks for the recipe at the rink next week.

///

1975

The ice saved him again. Well, it wasn’t the ice itself, because he felt too afraid to step on it in skates in fear of being recognized. Rather, what saved him was the fact that that one ice rink in an old town twenty minutes out of Prague was in search of a Zamboni driver.

Weeds grew around the parking lot, the door was hanging on one hinge and the main office was staffed with an old lady that took one look at him and croaked, “What do you want, boy?” and then looked back into her newspaper, deeming Emil too uninteresting to observe.

“I heard you were looking for a Zamboni driver?” Emil tried, unsure of himself.

“You’re the only one who has come forward. You’ve got the job,” She said, sounding bored. “Just drive that machine around once a day and we’ll pay you something. Bye.”

“Uh, Bye…” Emil walked out of the office backward, stunned. Not one to look a gift horse in its mouth, he decided to take a look at his new workplace right away.

The place was deserted except for a few lone hockey players lounging around the boards. They nodded at him as he passed, but didn’t acknowledge him further. Emil walked all the way around the rink until he found the garage with the Zamboni and stared down the old, cranky vehicle.

It reminded him of the tanks, for some reason. Obviously it was just a weird association, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Then he realized another problem – he didn’t actually know how to drive a Zamboni, much less take care of it when it wasn’t in use. But that was an issue that could be solved later. Now he had a job and one that seemed promising at the least.

.

He was lucky - In more ways than one, actually. He not only figured out how to drive a Zamboni (that was one eventful afternoon), but also discovered that the organization at this forgotten rink was absolutely terrible. Those people didn’t even ask for his name, much less his papers and political history.

This was a chance he intended to take. It would take time to find the perfect opportunity – but he was decided. He wanted to get out of this country, out of the all-encompassing, soul-crushing claws of communism.

Emil started up the engine of the Zamboni and drove out on the ice. The skaters that were there until then retreated to the benches, smiling at him as he passed by. Did they even know who he was? Probably not – his hair was longer than back then, and he was growing a beard. But still, to think that maybe some of those kids started skating because of the guy that was driving the Zamboni around them now was a sad, bittersweet thought.

To hope that this kind of sadness would ever leave while he was in Czechoslovakia was laughable. But he still waved at the kids as he wheeled the machine back into the garage. It was the least he could do for them.

///

1985

Viktor and Yuuri become an anchor in Emil’s life as he learns more about the western world. They seem to wish to adopt anyone who’s willing – including, but not limited to a young Soviet defector (named Yuri, who teaches Emil so many wonderful Russian curse words, listens intently when Emil teaches him the Czech ones and then sends Viktor “do prdele” when asked to do the single lutz the fifth time over) a Swiss lawyer (named Chris, somehow even more shameless than Yuuri that has had five bottles of champagne)and a retired Thai gymnast (Phichit, who talks at extreme speeds in any language and sometimes just does a perfect split jump across the living room because he’s bored).

Emil spends his days teaching at the rink and working the occasional part-time job to secure his living. He sometimes even drives the Zamboni around – his fears have pretty much evaporated after the first few years. In the evening, he usually cooks his own dinner – but at least once a week he goes to the Katsuki–Nikiforov household (which is how they have been calling their place in secret) to eat and talk and laugh with all the people they have over. They’re not parties – far from it. More like family dinners, except without all the stress and tiptoeing around each other. Yuuri and Viktor usually end up snuggling into one another on the couch (they sometimes fall asleep like that, it’s extremely cute). The rest of the guests along with Emil take their seats on the floor or in the chairs dragged from the dining room.

Sometimes, they listen to the radio, but most of the time they just talk. Every once in a while one of them tells their own story – a tiny bit about their life “back then” or “back there”.

Emil finds himself talking about Martin, and about Comrade Tomek and about the tanks and the fear. He almost breaks down and starts crying, but he sees sad compassion and understanding on the faces around him and he just slumps back into his chair and listens, because knows he’s not alone.

Viktor talks about running for his life all for speaking out of turn, about Yakov hauling him into his car and just driving before anyone realized they were gone, about shooting and a car crash and a leg injury, and about the freedom he could feel in the air. He doesn’t seem so emotional about it like Emil is, but his eyes glisten a bit and he curls into Yuuri’s embrace.

Phichit doesn’t talk about what prompted him to leave Thailand but tells a lot of childhood stories and dumb jokes and terrible innuendos, which are vigorously encouraged by Chris and his dirty mind. Yuri is silent most of the time, weirdly so, but Emil supposes his experiences must still be too fresh to be discussed out in the open.

Yuuri doesn’t talk much either - when he does, he tells the poetic love story that brought him and Viktor together (two strange, outcast university students – tentative eye contact, a brush of hands, “study sessions” in coffee shops - all of it with the scrutiny of society upon the two of them for different reasons, but nevertheless, a secret happy ending). It has Chris wiping his eyes with a handkerchief while clutching to Phichit’s arm and whispering something about throwing away his law degree and becoming a romance writer.

Viktor and Yuuri have also taken to wearing gloves at the rink lately, and it’s only during one of these dinners that the rest of them find out the reason. As Yuuri lifts a fork to his mouth, something on his right hand catches the light and glints. Chris leans in, blinks, and then quickly scans Viktor’s right hand. “Do the two of you think you’re being subtle?” He chuckles and then raises his glass.

Yuuri goes a brilliant crimson red and Viktor smiles like Christmas came early. He displays his hand for everyone to see – he has a golden ring on his ring finger, matching with the one Yuuri’s wearing.

Phichit squeaks. “I knew it! Congratulations!” and goes to envelop Yuuri in a crushing hug. Yuri sighs and murmurs something about knowing this would happen sooner or later. Emil claps enthusiastically beside him.

The Katsuki – Nikiforovs can’t get married, no matter how much they love each other and how obvious it is to anyone who knows them. But that night they have a wedding reception – complete with a store-bought cake that Yuri almost breaks his legs for while trying to get it before the supermarket closes, embarrassing toasts (courtesy of Chris and Phichit, who dramatically describe the time they tried to make out in the supply closet of the rink, only to discover it was already occupied), and even a bouquet of dandelions Emil picks off the curb and presents to the couple as a wedding gift.

Those evenings are so precious to Emil. He feels like he’s not wandering anymore. He’s found a country that accepted him, a group of people that care about him. He speaks fluent Dutch now – some Belgians have even told him that he barely has an accent.  
That accent is still there, though. Just like his homesickness and the wistful thinking he gets whenever the word “Czechoslovakia” gets mentioned on the radio. He loves his home here in Belgium, but maybe he just wants to see Wenceslas square one more time.

He probably never will, though.

///

1976

The catalyst that set Emil’s quest for escape in motion was a short article printed in tiny letters in a corner of the sports section of the local newspaper. ‘Belgium is holding a new, strange contest – for Zamboni drivers. They are inviting Zamboni drivers from all over the world to share their methods and tricks in a three-day workshop,’ was all it said, but it was precisely what he needed. In the West, for Zamboni drivers, and most importantly, without a date.

He got to work.

Brought the article to the lady that ran the rink and got her begrudging approval to attend and “show them what the socialist Zamboni drivers are capable of”. Applied for the deviza and then for a visa. They kept him waiting, but they didn’t suspect that a lowly machine operator could be someone else than what he’s said he was. He played dumb, wrote with grammatical mistakes, wore rags when he went to pick up his passport. Somehow, they ate it like a fish eats a bait.

The possible date of the workshop was far gone when he finally got all the reviews and signatures needed. He wrote a letter to his parents (talking face to face would be dangerous for both parties, and besides, they were never that close) and threw it into their postbox on a warm August morning.

After that, he walked through the streets of Prague, strangely detached. He supposed he should have been sad, and lonely and homesick for a country that he would most likely never set foot in again, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything else other than excited and nervous (and afraid) to be leaving this curtain of lies at last.

He hid his documents, skates, and all the other compromising things already. There was nothing left to do – only to sit in his Trabant, start the engine and start making his way towards the border. He passed towns he never visited, rinks he never skated on, mountains he never climbed – yet he drove on.

As the border came to view, hours after he last stopped to check that everything was in place, his hands started sweating. He wiped them on his baggy trousers and slowly advanced, eyeing the border patrol that was waving him over.  
Almost there.

///

1989

Emil is glued to the radio. He even bought a small, portable one to take with him to the rink and listen to in between teaching. He’s been like this ever since it all started months ago, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Especially not now.

Every conversation at dinner inevitably spirals back to the topic that lies heavy on their minds.

All throughout the year, the socialist republics have been crumbling. First Poland, then Hungary, the DDR... The reform itself was coming from the USSR, where something called perestroika was taking place, progressive people were suddenly in charge and able to slowly dismantle the regime. Two weeks ago, the Berlin wall fell. The strings were stretched thin, tuned to perfection, and then when someone tried to play that soviet violin, they all broke and withered away to dust. 

It was as if Czechoslovakia was waiting for the last second to finally take its shot at freedom. Last Friday was November 17th – the sad anniversary of the day when the Nazis closed all universities and killed student leaders in 1939. University students organized a commemoration, but after a few hours, it turned into a peaceful but loud protest against the communist regime. The police and public security responded by barricading the students at Narodní třída and beating them up.

That set off a chain reaction, which happened faster than the foreign media could forward it to people like Emil. Enormous spontaneous demonstrations and strikes started immediately. The regime had no chance to control or silence the protests as they used to previously. The revolution didn’t happen over the course of months like in other countries – Today is Friday 24th, and the radio host has just announced that the entire Czechoslovak communist central command publicly resigned.

Emil is sitting in his flat, hands on his knees. He wants to go home. He wants to go home, but he’s so afraid. He was afraid to keep any kind of correspondence, to telephone, to send telegrams. Is there anything even waiting for him? He stares at the small, half-packed suitcase as if he was in a trance. Does he really miss home that much, or are those tears simply something that has been kept behind a firm dam for the last thirteen years?

Throwing another pair of socks into the suitcase, he wipes his wet eyes and regards himself in the small mirror that hangs on his wardrobe door. At forty-two, he doesn’t look very similar to the nineteen-year-old world bronze medalist. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe his homeland can welcome him for a short visit, even if he’s changed.

The suitcase is closed and hauled to his cranky Trabant (Which somehow withstood the trials of the years through the power of magic and Viktor and Phichit’s combined knowledge and skills while Emil made them cookies), the flat is secured and locked. He takes a somber look at the rink as he drives by, but doesn’t stop. He left a message on Viktor’s desk, so he and the rest of his friends won’t worry too much. They tried to talk him out of it at first, afraid that the situation was still unstable, but at this point, he’s willing to risk anything. Just like he was willing to back then.

As Emil is about to make the last turn, lose sight of the rink, and all the familiar places, he notices a person running beside his car on the sidewalk, waving wildly.

Raven hair, blue glasses. Yuuri.

He’s yelling something unintelligible and gesturing at Emil to stop. Emil dutifully pulls over to the nearest vacant parking spot, and gets out of the car, trying to decipher what Yuuri was trying to say. Before he has any chance to, though, he’s enveloped in a crushing, warm hug.

Emil hugs back, because may be surprised but he loves hugging people he cares about. They stay like that for a little while, until Yuuri untangles himself and starts apologizing. “I’m sorry, I just- I just want to make sure you know you can always return here. No matter how long it takes.”

Taken aback, Emil almost starts tearing up again. “I’ll be back in two weeks, a month at most. Got to prevent you from dragging all my students over to ice dancing.” He smiles. “Don’t worry.”

Yuuri nods, resolutely. Then he smiles. “You’re going in the wrong direction. This street leads to the highway to France.”

Emil can’t help it, he starts laughing. He hugs Yuuri one more time, gets back into the car, and turns around. When he’s driving back past the rink, he notices all his friends waving at him from the front porch. Chris is lifting Phichit and Yuri at the same time, all of them yelling. Viktor is standing on one leg, the other in his skate. He’s got that smile he makes when he’s really proud of someone. His ring glints in the sunlight, because he probably forgot to put on his gloves. Nobody except Emil notices.

The rink disappears from view for the second time. The Trabant drives out of Antwerp, and Emil makes his way east.

.

The air in Czechoslovakia isn’t any different from the air in West Germany - but Emil can taste the freedom in it.

He doesn’t stop like he did last time. He drives on and on, radio at full volume. Passing castles, homes, towns, memories on his way, he makes the old vehicle creak in protest as he speeds towards Prague.

There’s a demonstration at Letná, the radio announces – the state-run radio, of all things! The one that used to spew propaganda day and night now supports and informs the protestors. It brings a smile to Emil’s face.

He leaves his car in some old, ratty corner of Malá Strana and makes the hike up to Letná on foot. The tram cars are full of people, and the streets that lead up to the plain are filled to the brim. Emil takes advantage of his height and elbows his way forward until he can get a better look at the entire protest.

It’s enormous. There must be at least half a million people, probably more. All the way in the front is a stage, and up there someone is talking into a microphone, but the sound is distorted by the distance and chatter. It doesn’t really matter what that person is saying – the signs the people around Emil are holding say it all. This is a protest against communism and a demonstration of support towards the democratic movement.

A musician walks on the stage, guitar in hand. He starts playing a song – and everyone repeats the last few lines of every verse with him. Emil joins in, because he understands, and not just the language. 

///

When his wisdoms he would gently sing  
in the window of my chamber  
I forged him a pair of angel wings  
from the brass that held my saber

So my angel, he has left and gone  
he flew away right through the window  
but my friend will make another one  
from my helmet - perhaps tomorrow

I beg you - please believe me  
I wish to question  
the answers he will give me  
about my fortune  
about my doorways  
and what lies beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my grandpa, who emigrated from Czechoslovakia in the 70s and whose journey became the inspiration for this story. [Stalinism in Czechoslovakia(a very detailed article)](https://www.britannica.com/topic/Czechoslovak-history/Stalinism-in-Czechoslovakia) , [Communism in Czechoslovakia (a shorter overview)](https://www.private-prague-guide.com/article/communism-in-czechoslovakia/)
> 
> The song in the fic is called [The Angel, translated by The Yehla Collective](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VOY8xAuL17Y), the [Czech original is by Karel Kryl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWuNXx4Amfw).  
> Thank you so much for reading, please comment what you think! You can follow me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/mandolinearts), i mostly draw victuuri being sappy.


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